


Inclination

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Community: acd_holmesfest, Early in Canon, M/M, PTSD, Virgin Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A convalescence, a revelation, and a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inclination

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elina_elsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elina_elsu/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/45548.html).

I had started from motives of pure practicality, and expected any arrangement to be entirely temporary. I had some thought that any medical student or young doctor I found would likely move on and start his own practice as soon as he could manage it, and hoped that by then I would be able to afford the rooms on my own. I preferred solitude, before I met John Watson.

He was fascinating in his recovery. He started gaunt, and with the remains of a dark tan stretched over the underlying grey of illness. I watched him as he jumped at noises, avoided crowds, avoided asking me anything personal until I finally had to outright confront him with my profession for him to allow himself to give into his curiosity. He had been polite to the point of diffidence, and I hoped inviting him along would pull him out of it a little. I even made some effort at restraining the more disagreeable aspects of my personality, though I knew I could not keep that up for long.

I didn’t think too hard about why impressing _this_ man in particular was so important to me, at the start. Yet less than a day into the Drebber case I had already decided it would not be the only one I invited him on.

It did shake him, though. When I returned from the newspaper offices he had clearly attempted to sleep, and instead paced. He ate less than usual at dinner.

“This Brixton Road affair has upset you,” I said.

“To tell you the truth, it has,” said Watson. “I ought to be more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences.”

He clearly loathed that it had, and I tried to reassure and distract him. But it was the closest I had got him to talking about the war.

But apart from that he was caught up in the mystery of it all, and when I turned to him at the end, Jefferson Hope lying bound on the floor of our sitting room, the admiration on his face made me nearly forget that the police had also witnessed my triumph. And though I complained to him about the lack of recognition, really I didn’t care, for that evening, to be recognized by anyone but him. I would not have missed that investigation for anything.

For a week all I had were obvious questions from professionals, nothing with any true features of interest, and a boring romantic entanglement. I took to examining passers-by to keep my hand in – it was an unforeseen advantage to living on a major thoroughfare. Watson mostly drifted as he had before, nursing his old wounds and reading, but I caught him watching me a few times. He no longer gave me the curious, searching, quickly averted looks he had when he had been trying to figure me out; instead he seemed to hope I would do something spectacular if he only watched hard enough. It made me want to prove him right.

If it was an example of deduction he wanted, however, I would be better off not producing the ones that came immediately to mind. Observations of the poor state of his health were not likely to impress him.

At last, however, I not only saw an interesting character on the pavement, but saw that she was almost certainly headed for our door. She walked past, then turned and walked past again, but without looking at the building numbers, and I was positive. I turned to where Watson sat on the settee, and he quickly looked down at his novel again, as if he had not noticed that my flourish had been entirely for his benefit.

“A woman will ring shortly,” I said. “She is independent and wealthy; probably a widow, but if so it has been at least five years since her husband’s death, and she is childless. She is concerned but does not feel threatened – the matter is one that seems small to her, but I have hopes it will be of interest. And I believe she has been recommended here by a former client, not a private agent, which is excellent news for my reputation.”

His eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. “You saw her from the window, of course,” he said, “but how could you possibly know the rest? Or that she is coming here?”

“Simplicity itself, Watson. She has passed by four times in the last two minutes, and I doubt it is because she is anxious over consulting the milliner next door. Had she spoken to another private detective, she would have overcome her uncertainty about whether the case was worth outside attention. As for the rest – that is the bell; look at her yourself and see if you can find how I learned it.” I wanted to teach him – I wanted him to be influenced by me, and to know my methods.

At this moment the landlady opened the door with our visitor’s card, and I took it and handed it to Watson. “Mrs. Hilda Towers,” he read. A moment later she opened the door.

I admit I largely took the case for Watson’s sake, to show him more of my talents and to see him active, instead of restless and trapped inside. Not that I had no sympathy for Mrs. Towers’ complaints of mysterious parcels and a feeling of being watched; only that it would also occupy us both, at least for the evening.

When I invited Watson along he agreed enthusiastically. That evening he crouched next to me behind a hedge in Mrs. Towers’ back garden, his slightly excited breathing clearly audible. I was nearly pressed against him by the confined space.

However, I knew it would likely be some time before anyone appeared, even if Mrs. Towers was right and this would be one of this nights her trespasser visited. I had made pains to arrive early, and it was more than an hour before we heard any sounds in the area. When at last the gate creaked and plants rustled, Watson tensed beside me, and I placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Then a shot rang out, and Watson jerked as if it had hit him. I had a momentary irrational fear that it _had_ , before he was – madly – running out of concealment in the direction of the sound.

I couldn’t let him go off alone, of course, and I followed him with a curse.

The shooter had believed he was alone; he was certainly not expecting observers to be mere yards away and prepared to apprehend him. Watson grabbed him from behind and wrestled the gun out of his hand at once, then glanced back for me.

“Hold him,” he said, “I must see to his victim.” I pinned the man, not quite having expected Watson’s sudden assumption of authority.

“Who are you?” cried the man in my grip. “What are you doing here?”

“A better question for you to answer, I think,” I told him, twisting one of his arms to make him struggle less. “I am here at my client’s request. What was your purpose in persecuting Mrs. Towers like this?”

“I’ve done nothing to Hilda!” he shouted indignantly. “It’s Parker, the fiend. I’ve put an end to that, at least.”

“Tell me about Parker,” I said. He seemed the type to betray himself at the least provocation.

“He’s got no right to her,” he said. “He’s been bothering her for months. I’m a friend of hers. Get off me!”

“I’ve only your word for that,” I said, wondering if I could manage to get the handcuffs in my pocket onto him. Watson had disappeared, and anything could be happening to him.

“I’ve known her for years!”

“And this Parker hasn’t?”

“I don’t know how he got it into his head that she’d care for him, but he’s – what are you doing?”

I closed the other cuff around the fencepost. He had said he didn’t know anything relevant; I had better go find Watson. Other matters could be dealt with when I knew what had happened to him.

In his dark coat he was, of course, invisible among the plants. I crossed the garden in the direction I thought he had gone and came to the fence before I had found him.

I followed it to the gate, which was hanging open, and saw movement just behind it. Watson was bent over a man on the ground, breathing heavily. Far too heavily for the improved state of his health. I touched his shoulder as I leaned forward to look at his patient, and he jumped away from my hand.

Parker – if that was who it was – could wait. I turned to Watson, and crouched beside him when I realized that there was something very wrong. His eyes were wide and staring, and he shook minutely.

“Watson,” I said, keeping my voice gentle for fear of startling him again. “Watson?”

At this his eyes refocused and he said, “Yes. My patient,” woodenly, and turned back to him.

“How is he?” I asked.

Watson stared at the man on the ground. “He’s – I’ve stopped the bleeding. He was knocked unconscious when he fell. I don’t – that’s all I can do.” He didn’t move.

“Watson?” I felt useless.

“Mr. Holmes?”

It was Mrs. Towers, striding across her yard. “There you are, Mr. Holmes. What on earth has happened?”

“Ah, Mrs. Towers.” I pulled together my professional persona. “There is a man handcuffed to your fence -”

“Yes, James Lewis, I saw him. But what about the gunshot?”

“He shot this man.” I led her around Watson, trying to ignore his unusual stillness. “Do you recognize him?”

“Perhaps.” She bent down, pulling her skirts away from his body, and gently moved his face upwards. “Maybe in better light.”

“And does the name Parker mean anything to you?”

“Oh!” she said. “Yes, that might be Thomas Parker. He was a friend of my husband’s. Will he be all right?”

The wound was on his leg, and the bandage seemed to be doing its job. “I believe so. Watson,” I said carefully, “can you help me lift him?”

Watson stood and we carried Parker back to the house. “Hilda!” said Lewis as we passed him.

“The police should be here shortly,” said Mrs. Towers. “I sent the butler for them. Mr. Holmes, I did not invite either of these men here. I know them both slightly, but have had little contact with them since my husband’s death. I don’t know which of them has been annoying me, but I thank you, and you, Dr. Watson, for apprehending them. Can we leave him here by the door?”

We did, for Mrs. Towers had heard her bell, and shortly I was explaining matters as I understood them to the officer in charge, who luckily had heard of me from Gregson and was inclined to trust me.

“I can explain what Parker was doing,” said Lewis, still restrained.

“That’s as may be,” said the officer, “and we’ll keep a watch over him while he’s in hospital, but you’re under arrest for attempted murder. Kind of you to save us the trouble of handcuffing him, Mr. Holmes.”

As soon as I could I took my leave, trying not to be obvious in my concern for Watson. For he had spent the whole period since Mrs. Towers’ arrival looking blank and distant, saying nothing and doing nothing of his own initiative. It was terribly unlike him. When I had him in a cab I clasped his hand in mine and said, “Watson, what has happened?”

He blinked at me.

“You’re not well, Watson. What is wrong?”

A bit of his personality reappeared in his eyes. “It is nothing,” he said, and although this was patently ridiculous I felt better to hear him speaking and responding like himself.

“My dear Watson, that was certainly not nothing. You treated Parker properly – he was bandaged and you gave me a diagnosis – and then you simply froze.”

“Oh,” said Watson. Then, “I am sorry, Holmes, I was not myself.”

“Would you have preferred not to come?” I asked, because that seemed the likeliest cause, no matter how much I wanted him with me.

“No!” he said. “No, Holmes, it wasn’t anything to do with this crime. It – treating him – simply reminded me of,” he paused for a breath. “Afghanistan.”

“I would have thought that that was my fault, for dragging you here to be shot at.”

He almost laughed, not pleasantly. “It’s not the shots. That would make some kind of sense.”

The cab arrived at Baker Street, and I preceded him inside, trying not to give him concerned looks at every possible opportunity. In our sitting room I said hesitantly, “What did you mean?”

Watson slumped to a chair. “It’s about medicine, rather than war. It is just – I was – when I was shot – I was treating a man then. For a moment everything looked exactly the same, and I was expecting – it’s nothing, it shouldn’t have mattered.”

It clearly hadn’t been. Being reminded of such an event was reason enough for anxiety, and I tried to find words to say it. He was still pale.

“That’s why I haven’t been looking for work,” he said. “It’s not just my damned illness. I am barely a doctor at all now. I will freeze like that, and harm someone – better not to risk it.”

“That is still illness, rather than any fault of yours,” I said. He shook his head without speaking further.

I hated talking of emotions. I was not certain, either, that I could convince him to push past his obvious reticence and shame. There was so great a chance of offending him, of making things worse, of seeing his face shadowed again – or completely absent, as it had been for that terrible second.

That did not mean I could do nothing. I crossed the room and took my violin out of its case.

I set to tuning it and rosining the bow. He was looking at me with quiet hopefulness – I suppose my usual repertoire would not inspire anything more definite. But now of all times I was not going to annoy him with my own aimless fiddling. I was playing for him, not to more easily hear myself think.

When I looked over again, halfway through, his eyes were closed and his face was a more clear picture of relaxation than I had honestly expected to see from him for days, after that night. I had not thought my playing would have such an effect.

I kept on. Half an hour later I almost thought he was asleep, but when I paused between pieces he opened his eyes and smiled at me, and I was suddenly breathless.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, which was the only way I learned how long I had stood silently looking into his eyes. “You are incredibly talented.”

He knew, even then, how I lived for praise. I had not hidden my frustration with my obscurity – and I could not hide my reaction to praise from _him_. No single person had had such an effect on me in over half a decade. It was perplexing and unsettling and attractive all at once.

And I was still staring at him.

I said something light in acknowledgement, something I forgot in seconds, and busied myself with cleaning and putting away my instrument. He poured himself a glass of brandy, and sat drinking it as I tidied away the debris on my desk. When he had finished I said, “You should be abed by now. It’s past one,” thinking that solitude, and sleep if at all possible, would be best for him.

“I suppose so,” he said. “I wouldn’t have slept after the excitement earlier, but perhaps I will now.” I heard him rise and cross the room, and expected his “Good night.”

It didn’t come. I turned, to find that he was closer to me than I had expected, and his hand was raised to my shoulder, and my movement had put me nearly into the circle of his arms, and suddenly it was clear to me that I could – I hadn’t, not even with – but I could -

Or he could. His hand made contact with my shoulder, and his pupils widened. “You should -” he began, but his voice was low and broke in the middle.

“Yes?” I whispered.

He leaned forward, too close to be misinterpreted but far enough away to be ignored, and then I reached for the back of his neck and he reached up and there, there, like that, I hadn’t imagined it would be like _that_.

He pulled away far too quickly. “Thank you,” he said.

“You needn’t thank me,” I said. “Please – don’t think that you need to thank me.”

He looked into my eyes properly then. “And if it isn’t thanks?”

I kissed him again. I couldn’t help it – I couldn’t think of anything else. He sighed against me and pressed our bodies together, his grip a little too tight. For the moment I paid that no attention, focusing on learning this new art from his mouth against mine. He was not shaking, not afraid any more, growing almost relaxed in my arms and every moment of the kiss seemed to show me something new, something I had not understood but wanted to...

But I tried to limit myself, and at last gently pulled back. “My dear Watson,” I managed.

“I am exhausted,” he admitted, resting his head against my shoulder.

“I would have thought so. Go to bed, Watson.” I put all the affection I could fit into his name, and he smiled at me and kissed me again, and did.


End file.
